


So Close

by jehans



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, July Revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine tired, frustrated, defeated revolutionaries find their way back to Courfeyrac’s after the revolution in 1830 and try to make the best of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Close

**Author's Note:**

> Group cuddles with Les Amis, based on [this tumblr post](http://midshipmankennedy.tumblr.com/post/39267169141/courfeyrrac-one-big-les-amis-sleepover-with). Sleeping positions mostly based on [Miki’s drawing](http://mikijolras.tumblr.com/post/39293170953/leaving-it-here-for-now-will-continue-it). Some slight historical liberties taken for the sake of plot. Small warning for post-battle dried blood.

**July, 1830**

Courfeyrac let out a kind of a yowl as soon as he was inside his apartment. “We were so close!” he screamed for probably the fourth time.

“Can I get inside?” Jehan’s voice chirped from somewhere at the back of the group. “I am _covered_ in blood.”

Bahorel shuffled aside to let him duck in as he rolled his eyes at Courfeyrac. “So you’ve said,” he replied to Courfeyrac’s bellow, “many times.”

“I’m upset!” Courfeyrac shouted back at him petulantly while simultaneously reaching out to help Jehan untangle the knot on the scrap of scarlet — a bit torn from someone’s tricolor — that had been hastily wrapped around his head.

“We are aware,” Bahorel snipped back but Combeferre stepped in.

“Seven, eight. . . ,” he counted. “Where’s Grantaire?”

“Mph — here!” Grantaire’s voice called from behind the rest of them, his hand coming up in as though answering roll in class.

“Doesn’t even fight,” Bahorel quipped under his breath, “turns up at the last moment to ‘see how things are going,’ fucking hell —”

“Are you quite finished?” Feuilly snapped back at him. Everyone was irritable. Everyone was angry and tired and frustrated, and everyone was taking it out on each other.

“Ow ow ow!” Jehan cried as Courfeyrac started to — rather gently, actually — peel the filthy cloth off his forehead, stuck there by dried blood.

“Sorry, mate,” Courfeyrac sighed, casting the dirty scrap away without looking or caring where it landed and reaching for the basin, bringing Jehan shuffling along with him to start cleaning his cut. He’d been grazed, but not badly injured. Bahorel had received a bayonet across his arm. Another graze. Besides a few bruises, these were their only injuries.

Grantaire was finally inside now, the last of the group, and was shutting the door. “I did warn you this wasn’t going to end well,” he said to Bahorel, apparently in reply to his previous remark. “And now what? One king dethroned by another, monarchy bending to. . .monarchy. Ah, what progress.”

“This isn’t exactly what we were hoping for, Grantaire,” Bossuet said patiently to stop whatever remark Bahorel was about to spit in response. “None of us are happy about this, it doesn’t mean we oughtn’t to have tried.”

“All I am saying —” Grantaire began but was cut off by Enjolras turning to him and snapping, “If you are against us, you may leave.”

It was the first thing Enjolras had said since they’d left the scene.

Grantaire blinked. “Of course I am not against you,” he said quietly, but was interrupted again by another yelp of pain from Jehan.

“Sorry!” Courfeyrac said again, quickly pulling the cold wet cloth away. There really was blood all over one side of Jehan’s face and in his hair and down his shirt. He looked a sight.

Combeferre stepped in again, reaching out to take the cloth from Courfeyrac. The water in the basin was pink. “Here,” he said softly, “let me.”

“Are we sure he’s going to be all right?” Joly muttered, fretting from foot to foot as Combeferre gently tilted Jehan’s chin to get better access to the dried blood inside his ear. “That’s an awful lot of blood.”

“You know how head wounds are,” Combeferre replied calmly as Jehan shot Joly a somewhat worried look. “It’s very superficial, Prouvaire, it will be healed in a week I’d wager.”

As Jehan’s face relaxed and he let Combeferre dab at his neck, Courfeyrac darted toward one of the windows, flung in open dramatically, and shouted out into the night, “WE WERE SO CLOSE!” And then, his cry resounded, his shoulders slumped in Jacobin defeat and Bossuet crossed to him to gently pry him away from the window and shut it again.

“Courfeyrac, do you have any more water?” Feuilly asked from the other side of the room as Bahorel grunted and flopped down on an arm of the sofa and Enjolras went to the window Courfeyrac had bellowed out of, gazing into the street. Grantaire, silenced, was hovering near the door, watching Enjolras anxiously.

Courfeyrac squinted up at Feuilly. “What?”

“Water,” Feuilly repeated. “For washing? We can wash out of the buckets if need be, I understand Jehan’s got a wound which needs cleaning, but my skin reeks of gunpowder.”

“Mm, mine too,” Joly admited.

Bahorel huffed, “And mine.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Courfeyrac said, waving a hand. “Two pails in the cupboard there. I’ll get shirts,” he added disjointedly before crossing to his wardrobe and diving in. Moments later, bits of pressed white linen began flying over his shoulder at the others in the room with him.

“Heyo!” Feuilly cried as one of them landed straight on Bossuet’s head. “Courfeyrac, what’s happening?”

Courfeyrac spun around and looked at him. “Clean shirts,” he said as though it were obvious. “You don’t want to go to sleep smelling of gunpowder? You’ll need clean shirts.”

“Oh,” Feuilly said, looking down at the shirt in his hands. “That’s very kind.”

Courfeyrac grabbed one more shirt and handed it to Enjolras, then shrugged. “They’re only shirts.”

Jehan winced as Combeferre wiped gently at his eye. His eyelashes were still partially stuck together and none of this was comfortable.

“This is not going to fit,” he heard Bahorel grumble.

“Then don’t wear it,” Courfeyrac snapped back and Jehan pulled from Combeferre’s grasp to turn around and look at them, half expecting one or the other to start throwing punches. But Enjolras had moved again and was resting one hand on Courfeyrac’s volatile arm, shooting a weighted glance at Bahorel. Both breathed, simmering down. Combeferre’s hand went back to Jehan’s chin and he turned him around again. A few more dabs and Jehan was released.

“There,” Combeferre said softly, pressing the wet cloth into Jehan’s hand. “You can get the rest. You may need to dunk your head in the water to get it out of your hair, though.”

Jehan frowned, but followed his advice.

Joly and Bossuet had dragged out the rest of the water and the two of them and Feuilly were circled around them, scrubbing the dirt and soot and gunpowder off of their faces and necks and arms. Grantaire was still hovering by the door until Courfeyrac called to him to find any food that might be lying around. Bahorel joined in the search but all they could find was a box of macarons, several bottles of wine, and four loaves of bread.

“What does he eat?” Bahorel grumbled, waving these specimans toward Feuilly, who smiled.

“I imagine he eats out a lot,” he replied.

Courfeyrac himself was huddled in the far corner with Combeferre and Enjolras, their heads bent together as they spoke quietly to each other. No one else could hear what they said, and they did not speak of it later, but when they all emerged, Courfeyrac looked considerably lighter, Enjolras a bit clearer.

Meanwhile Grantaire had opened all of the wine and the other five were starting to partake of the bread and macarons. Jehan’s hair was soaked through and he had already changed out of his stiff, bloody shirt into one of Courfeyrac’s soft, rather-too-large-for-him shirts, his ruined waistcoat cast aside. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Joly, who was freshly bandaging his head in between bites of food.

Bahorel washed by merely sticking his head into one of the buckets and getting water everywhere, and Combeferre meticulously scrubbed the gunpowder smell out of his skin before eating. Enjolras would not have eaten nor washed nor changed if Courfeyrac hadn’t made him. Eventually it was Jehan who ended the feast. Exhausted from the fight — where he’d killed at least three men, more than anyone but Enjolras — and from the loss of blood, he merely tilted over and leaned his head against Grantaire’s back.

As though cued by this, Courfeyrac clapped his hands together. “Bed then,” he said. “I’ve got the sofa, the chair, and two mattresses, will that be enough?”

“That will be fine, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said calmly, “thank you for your hospitality.”

“Not a problem, friend,” Courfeyrac replied, brushing it off as he stood and went to help Jehan up off the floor. “Take the couch,” he muttered to Jehan, “you deserve it the way you fought out there. Got enough bandages, Bahorel? Grantaire, you needn’t take the bottle to bed with you.”

“I like to,” Grantaire protested. “What if I get thirsty in the night?”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes but paid no more mind to this as he settled Jehan in on the sofa — the little poet immediately curled up and snuggled into the cushions to sleep — and then turned to drag the top mattress off of his bed and onto the floor. Grantaire had already settled in, apparently perfectly content to sleep on the floor, holding his bottle of wine as though it were his lover. Joly and Bossuet wordlessly and almost instantly claimed the bottom mattress, climbing in together as though it were obvious they would share. Bahorel took the chair, preferring to sleep sitting up than share a bed with someone. Feuilly almost settled in on the floor between the two mattresses until Combeferre pointed out how absurd that was and that he really ought to just sleep on the top mattress.

Courfeyrac looked at the other two before settling in. Combeferre glanced toward Enjolras, who was standing by the window again, then nodded at Courfeyrac. An _I’ll take care of it._

Courfeyrac nodded back, secretly grateful. He was exhausted. He barely paid attention to Feuilly’s surprised and maybe slightly disgruntled _oomph_ as he dropped into his lap to curl up in sleep.

The rest of the group quiet and settled, Combeferre approached Enjolras and laid a hand on his shoulder. Enjolras didn’t turn around. He stared out the window at the city below, a frown furrowing his brow. Combeferre knew he was the most disappointed of all of them. A huge step forward pulled so far back. No progress. No future.

Not yet.

“You should rest,” Combeferre said softly. “It won’t do her any good if you stand here staring at her all night, exhausting yourself.”

“We were so close,” Enjolras muttered, echoing Courfeyrac, but from Enjolras’ mouth the words were harder.

Combeferre sighed, feeling that weight. “We will try again,” he breathed. “We’re all still here, are we not? We all still fight.”

Enjolras turned at that, and looked around at his friends, spread out across the small, crowded room. They were bloodied and beaten and tired and worn, but they were here. And they were together. And they were still fighting.

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras murmured. “Tomorrow we begin again. Next time, we shall see the future come.”

“Yes,” Combeferre agreed firmly, stirred. “And tomorrow will come. But tonight, you must rest.”

Enjolras nodded this time, and clasped Combeferre’s arm with his hand.

As the two of them chose places to lie on the floor, Courfeyrac, who had been listening to this exchange, shifted in Feuilly’s lap to look out at him comrades. His gaze was met by Jehan, who had rolled over on the couch and had his eyes open, no doubt also listening to Enjolras and Combeferre. As their eyes met, Jehan smiled at Courfeyrac.

Yes, Courfeyrac thought. Tomorrow would come. The future would rise.

But tonight, they stood — and slept — together.

And that was enough for now.


End file.
